


Two Awful People on a Beach, Whose Darkest Secrets Aren't That Dark

by elvntari



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bonding, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Middle Earth, Post-Canon, daemags, they span some very long timelines, this is technically the fifth age but o well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 17:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14698515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Maglor and Daeron share a bonding moment while musing about their situation on the beach.





	Two Awful People on a Beach, Whose Darkest Secrets Aren't That Dark

My fingers are blistered and burnt by the hot sun, the pain of touch making it hard to play any sort of instrument, let alone the one which I am most renowned for.

“How did you allow that to happen?” Daeron doesn’t touch me, but he stares at my opened palms- at the red skin and welts of years worth of damage. I know that he understands. I know that his question was rhetorical. He doesn’t need me to answer. 

I’m delighted, though; this is the first thing he’s said to me in days, and somehow having a silent companion is worse than having no companion at all. I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t often considered doing something completely outrageous just get him to finally say something to me (because I’d never consider saying something myself- for all my repentance, I still have my father’s pride).

It would only be so fitting that the first thing he says to me is something I have no idea how to respond too- only be so typical. I almost laugh, but it’s been too long, and my cracked vocal chords would quickly transform it into some sort of sob.

We keep a distance of about a metre between ourselves at all times; I, because I’m afraid that he’ll slip a knife into my abdomen without warning; he, because he doesn’t know quite how gone I really am. I’d love to tell him that I can only _wish_ I was as lost as he thinks I am. But now, despite the distance, he seems concerned- “how long has it been since you last played?”

 “Ages,” I do laugh at that. Mostly because it the kind of hyperbole that surprises you by being completely true. As expected my laugh sounds half like a sob. Daeron flinches slightly.

 He’s afraid of me; this unwashed, unkempt, sea-salt-stung and tangle-haired first age monster that wanders with his feet bleeding and burnt from walking over the jagged rocks and hot summer sand. I’m scared of him- the way he’s so much cleaner than when I last saw him, how he still carries his lyre (intact) upon his back- how prim, and pleasant, and _functional_ he looks. I haven’t seen a first age elf look that healthy in millenia.

 “Which ones?” he eventually chances to ask, and I know that he understands.

 “Third through fourth- and now- now this one, too, I suppose-” I frown, “I can’t sing the way I used to, either, not with this voice.” I tap my throat, and he nods. It’s not a nod of empathy, but one of understanding- a silent _I can imagine that would be awful._ We’re both quiet for a moment- standing by the sea, watching the world go on around us. Then he starts again:

 “The high notes?”

 “Gone.”

 “I see-” he nods again, and we go back to standing.

“It doesn’t really matter, though,” I add, quieter than I really should.

He looks round at me, scanning my body up and down- looking for something, I suppose- “Maglor you own a house.”

“Yes?”

“How? Wait- no, that’s less important: why haven’t you taken a _bath_. And how come you never sleep there?”

“How? Old jewelry is worth a lot. And as for the other two questions,” I sigh, “I only own one so that I won’t get arrested for loitering around here- I own the area up there too-” I point to the cliff where that little farm cottage that I’m supposed to call ‘home’ stands. The place where I’ve been letting Daeron sleep for the past month.

“Oh.” We stand in silence. Our companionship is characterised by silence and standing. It seems somewhat mournful. “Do you keep anything there?”

I remember the house. The _old_ house. A grand old thing; abandoned and left to the woodworms- it was the safest place we could find: furthest away from the battle, and furthest away from civilization. It still stands- I know that much-- as some monument to the last shred of happiness I’d been able to dredge up before everything officially went to hell. I haven't been back since I went briefly- taking a break from my seaside wandering when my voice first failed me-- to retrieve some of those old relics of my past; the things that I'd need to sell.

“Old things,” I say, taking care to seem as detached as possible. If I said I'd gotten rid of _everything,_ I’d be lying. I tell myself that it helps me to spend only on necessities if I force myself to sell something new whenever I want for more- but I've been skipping out on even those. The truth is: I have a problem letting go.

Daeron smirks a little, I suppose he's thinking something along the lines of: _of course a prince would cling to his luxuries._ I don't say anything; if he wants more out of me, he'll have to work for it.

“Do you miss the old days?” He works for it.

“No.”

“You didn't even hesitate-”

“By the old days, you mean the first age, do you not?” I scowl at him; I expect he wants me to admit that I kind of enjoyed the wars; having all that drama; having such a distinct _purpose_. He's wrong.

“I mean your youth, Maglor,” he says my name, and it feels strange hearing it in his voice- his _accent-_ an accent that my brothers and I supposedly had wiped out.

“I miss it-” I hesitate, figuring out how best to word this feeling that I've been toying with since those very first deaths- the part of me that appreciated how all the tragedy became strangely _poetic_ \- “but I wouldn't go back.”

“Yeah, committing to your actions and all that- you don't need to pretend to be honourable around me-”

“No- I didn't enjoy the first age as some golden era of Noldor colonial glory, and I don't miss it, but I've never been more _inspired_ in my life. Tragedy makes for good musical fuel.” I take a moment to hold myself back. I don't look at him. “I'm a bad person, Daeron.”

Silence.

More silence.

I would check to see if he's walked away yet, but I'd've heard his footsteps. I don't look at him; he could've drawn a knife on me and I wouldn't know.

“I'm the same.” His voice is barely audible over the sound of the waves. Then he's quiet, but I can read the silence well enough to know that he's got more to say. He takes a breath, “when she- Lúthien died, I spent weeks grieving for the sole reason that it felt good, in some twisted way. I was-” he's choking on the words now, afraid to admit whatever he's resolved himself to say- “I was almost _disappointed_ when I heard that she was alive again.”

I smile.

“It's not funny,” he protests.

“Well, either it's a common experience, or we're just both awful people,” I say, “is it not comforting?”

“You're worse than me.”

“True.”

“You're still smiling.”

“I like you,” I tell him- “you understand. No one else does.”

“No one else talks to you,” he snorts.

“Probably for the best.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This incorporates a whole bunch of personal and discord group headcanons and I'm very pleased with how they all worked in here. I hope you enjoyed!


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